Kei's Gift

by Ann Somerville

  The room was certainly laid out for a seduction. Sweet incense filled the air, and the covers on the bed were laid down, flowers on both pillows. “Overdoing it a little, aren’t you?”

  She laughed. “You never know, Arman. You’ve never really given me a chance to prove myself a worthy bed mate. Perhaps if you tried it sober, you might enjoy it.”

  He winced again at the accuracy of her barb. Their few couplings, even on their wedding night, had always been when he or both of them had been drinking. In fact, he’d never had sex sober in his life, except with himself, and it wasn’t Mayl to whose memory he jerked off. “Apologies. I have been less than fair to you, and derelict in my conjugal duties.”

  “Never mind,” she said, taking him by the hand and leading him to the bed. “Let’s begin anew. Let’s learn how to treat each other with respect, so your child will be born under auspicious beginnings.”

  The mention of a child effectively robbed him of what little enthusiasm he could muster, and he could only watch as she disrobed with—he had to admit it—grace and sensuousness. Nude, she was perfect, a body any artist would love to sculpt or paint. Many men, of a certainty, would consider themselves blessed to have her in their bed. Unfortunately he wasn’t one of them. He’d never been able to lust where he did not like, and he assuredly did not like.

  “Arman? May I undress you?”

  He started to object automatically, but then stilled his hands. “If that is your pleasure, my wife.”

  She smiled pleasantly at the rare use of her title, and slid his outer coat off his shoulders, letting it slip to the floor. He suffered having his shirt similarly treated, and couldn’t help blushing as her fingers tugged at the ties on his trousers. Her hand cupped his groin suggestively, and his cock responded to the pressure, mindless organ that it was. “My, perhaps you’re particularly fertile tonight too.”

  He pushed her hand away, impatient with the whole thing and wishing she would stop harping on about pregnancy. He stripped efficiently, picked up his clothes and folded them neatly, almost grinning as he remembered his words to Loke earlier. Pouting, she climbed on the bed and waited for him to stop fiddling, which was only delaying matters.

  He’d gone into battle with less trepidation than he felt approaching his marital bed. But then he didn’t usually go into battles without any idea of what was expected of him. “Er...is there something I should do for you first?”

  She tugged his arm and made him sit next to her. He let her kiss him. “You could try being a little more cooperative,” she chided. “I’m your lawful wife, not a Darshianese whore.”

  “Apologies,” he said with empty politeness, and wondered if the Darshianese whores were sweeter to kiss. He’d never allowed himself that kind of release, always rather pitying anyone who had to turn to the profession, but he’d seen some of the half-naked women hanging around the docks, and sometimes caught himself wondering what such smooth brown skin would feel like to stroke, if the long hair would feel like the silk it resembled. He’d once walked down a back lane in a small town in the south and seen a woman fellating a man in the shadows—not a whore with a customer, but lovers, by the way they acted. He’d been horrified at their lack of shame, but as he’d touched himself that night, the memory of the woman’s hair as it tumbled down her back, the slick length of the man’s cock as it slid between her lips, and the way his hands had trembled, fingers tangling in her hair as he had cried out at his climax, drove out the vague fantasies of imagined sex with the idealised blonde who was all he usually had to arouse himself with. He tried not to encourage those memories.

  Mayl was as close to the Prijian ideal of beauty as it was possible to be, yet she left him colder than if he’d tried to have sex with a corpse. But she was here, right now, and no fantasy. He had to participate, not just watch, this time. She guided his hand to her nipple, and he rubbed it as she wanted. She seemed to enjoy it, moaning a little as she lay back on the bed and spread her legs. “Touch me,” she said in a throaty voice.

  “Where?”

  “Here, silly,” she said, pushing his fingers into her cleft.

  He couldn’t really recall doing this before, so he could lose himself somewhat in the novelty of it, the strange silkiness of her sex. She squirmed and sighed appreciatively, and he found that fascinating, wondering what he had done to elicit the response. Was this it? Yes, it had to be, as her back arched, so he did it again.

  He had no desire for this act with her, but he felt guilty at having chained his wife in a loveless, childless marriage which surely gave her no more satisfaction than it did him. So he resolved to make this enjoyable for her, taking his time in learning what got the best response, and exploring lower into her cunt which seemed to excite her wildly.

  Something about the way her skin felt, or perhaps the smell of her excitement, or the sounds she was making, finally wrung a response in him. To his definite relief, he found he was hard. He fisted his own cock even while he continued to finger and pleasure her. How long should he do this? He had no idea what she expected in that way, but she was less restrained than him about demanding what she needed. After only a couple of minutes, she cried out, “Fuck me, Arman, please fuck me,” as she writhed on the bed like someone suffering from a fever.

  Somewhat taken aback at her language, but relieved at not having to guess what he needed to do, he climbed on top of her. She slung a leg over his shoulder, and took his cock in her hand, guiding it to her cunt without the least shyness. He slipped in with surprising ease—for some reason, he expected more resistance—and then instinct took over where experience could not guide him, her cunt slicker and more insistent than his own hand could be, waking up vestigial memories how this should go, and what he needed to do. He let her movements set the pace, which seemed almost frantic, even desperate as she urged him to thrust harder, deeper, faster, overriding any distaste he felt at the situation, now only driven by the need to come and come hard inside her.

  When he did, he was almost shocked, his body shaken by a climax stronger than any he could remember. He felt weak in all his limbs, and had to remember not to collapse on top of her like an oaf. He moved her leg and flopped over onto his back at her side. He hoped that had been adequate, at least for a first sober effort. It took a little while to recover his breath. At last, he remembered his manners and turned to her. “Was that...all right?” He couldn’t remember if she had received satisfaction—or even how he would tell. It hadn’t been a very skilled performance.

  She raised herself up on one elbow and gazed down at him. “That was exactly what I wanted.”

  Something in her voice was off. He pushed himself back and looked at her, her smug expression, the way her skin glowed and the subtle roundness of her stomach. He suddenly realised what he was looking at. His eyes narrowed in anger.

  “Did the priests say for how long you had been ‘highly fertile’? And how were you planning to pass the child off if I hadn’t fallen for this charade tonight?”

  She made no attempt to deny it. “There’s nothing you can do about it. The child will bear your name and be seen as the fruit of our union.”

  “I could renounce you as an adulteress.”

  “But you would still have to raise the child, Sei Arman,” she said coldly, rising from the bed to find a robe to cover her nakedness. “Somehow, I doubt you really want to expose yourself as a cuckold.”

  He got up too, grabbing his pile of clothes and clutching his boots in one hand. “Then I wish you joy of your baby, Sei Mayl. This is the last time I fall for this, statement of fertility or not. I won’t keep more than one bastard of yours here, and if you make a move to divorce me for dereliction, I’ll send you away and expose the child to the gods’ mercy. My father can have his grandson, you can have your pet. But come near me again, and I’ll make you pay for it, have no fear of it.”

  She sneered. “Perhaps it’s for the best. After all, a man who would screw his serving boy isn’t much of a prize as a f
ather or a husband, is he?”

  He took a step towards her, and despite his ludicrous state, she cringed, as if she feared being hit. As well you might, you scheming slut. “What are you talking about?”

  “Loke. Everyone knows you’re fucking him. Even my maids pity me having to endure the shame of a husband who would stoop to a servant for his pleasure, rather than do his duty to his marriage and his line.”

  He raised his fist. Only by a supreme act of will, did he restrain himself from striking her. “You go too far, woman, and you don’t know the least thing about it. But if I ever ‘stooped’ to fucking Loke, rest assured, I could never feel as filthy as I do right now. His soul is pure, as is his body. You, on the other hand, are nothing but a whore in heart and mind. Your cunt is just higher priced than the ‘welcome’ girls in Urshek-si.”

  She hissed and for a moment, he thought she would jump at him, which would let him release some of the savage physical need to avenge her treachery. But she restrained herself. “Get out.”

  “With pleasure. But first—who is he?”

  “No one you will ever discover. You’ll never find out from the servants—they’re totally loyal to me.”

  He badly needed to drive that smug smirk from her face. He leaned forward, and she retreated a little. “Ah, yes, but I have only to call on Her Serenity’s spymaster to make enquiries for me. It is, after all, of some security significance if the wife of one of the Serenity’s generals is screwing around with a faceless stranger. Of course, that might make things awkward for you at court.”

  “You wouldn’t! Everyone would know!”

  “Yes. They would, wouldn’t they?” he said calmly, not giving a damn about his personal reputation, and at this point in time, not caring much about his family’s either. “So you would do best to keep this man hidden very well indeed, Mayl, dear. Because if this ever comes to light, be assured I will destroy him and I’ll destroy you. You’ll lose far more than I will.” He turned his back on her, not bothering to dress—if he shocked the servants, then it was all their disloyalty deserved. “Sleep well. I hope you think it was all worth the price.”

  He left to the sound of her spitting fury, and forced himself to saunter carelessly, nude, through his home, carrying his clothes and his shoes like an escapee from a brothel. Fortunately, he encountered no one, and closed the door of his bedroom behind him with relief.

  “By all the gods, Arman! What happened to you?”

  Loke—who should have been asleep. Arman wondered if his friend had a sixth sense like the Darshianese myths claimed some of their people had, at least when it came to him. Impervious to his surprise, Loke relieved him of his clothes, tsking over his state, and offering him his robe. Arman refused it with a shake of his head. “No, I need a bath. I need to wash the stink off me.”

  “It’s midnight. There won’t be any hot water.”

  “Then cold will do.”

  Loke frowned at him. “Give me a few minutes. Honestly, you want me to let you go on a campaign on your own, when you can’t even look after yourself in your own home.”

  Home, he thought sourly. Hardly. He sat in a chair, impatient to get the taste and feel of his bitch of a wife off him, and reluctantly admiring how well he’d been played. Yes, he could expose her and even rid himself of the cuckoo child, but she was right about it causing him a good deal of embarrassment and trouble. In the end, he didn’t care. He wouldn’t get a child on her, not now, not ever, so what did it matter if the blood in the brat was his? Only his father cared about such things, and only so long as his elder brother failed to produce a son of his own. The second he did, Arman’s son would be of no interest. Arman had a sufficient sense of fairness that he would not make the child suffer for the failings of either parent, legal or otherwise. There might be some sense of satisfaction in raising it to be a decent honourable person against its heritage, but he doubted Mayl would let him interfere with its training.

  He was suddenly weary, soul sick and tired in body. “It’s about time,” he growled at Loke when his page reappeared, hauling a bucket of steaming water.

  “Now hold your tongue, and be grateful I’m not making you freeze your balls off,” Loke chided. He poured the hot water into the hip bath, and fetched the ewer to top it off.

  “You say that as if I could possibly have a use for them.”

  Loke stilled, obviously struck by the bitterness of his tone. “What happened?” He indicated Arman should get into the bath—it was shallow, but he had bathed in far less water before.

  “Mayl’s pregnant. She was trying to secure my attention to the child after the fact.”

  Loke was no fool. “She’s trying to pass it off as yours? So tonight...?”

  “First and last time I’ll ever go to her bed as a willing and sober participant. I feel dirty.”

  Loke knelt, and took a dipper to pour water over him. “I can imagine,” he said in a low voice. “I’m sorry.”

  Arman shrugged. “I suppose it was inevitable. I don’t exactly pay court to her, and she’s an attractive woman.”

  “If you like reptiles, yes, I suppose she is. Who’s her lover?”

  “No idea. I only care if it threatens more than my pride. You never heard a hint about this?”

  Loke poked him in the chest with the dipper. “You think I would have heard something like this and not told you?” he said indignantly. “Of course not. I don’t gossip with her people—they don’t like me and I don’t care for them. You know that,” he added in soft reproach.

  Arman laid his hand on Loke’s blond head and tousled his hair. “Sorry, yes, I do know that. Gods.” He scrubbed at his skin, and Loke passed him a soapy cloth so he could wipe the stain from his person. The water wasn’t all that warm, and much as he would have relished a long soak, he had to be up in a few hours, a long sea journey ahead of him.

  Loke handed him a towel so he could dry off, and then his sleeping robe. “You won’t let this depress you, will you?” he asked, his expression earnest. “I mean, it’s done with, unless you intend to divorce her and I can’t imagine you will.”

  The lad knew him too well. “No, I won’t, and no, it won’t depress me. It’s...just one of those things. I’ll do my job, she’ll raise the bastard, life goes on. So long as she doesn’t interfere with me, I don’t care what she does.”

  Loke gave him a warm smile. “That’s good. Now, shall I brush your hair?”

  “I can brush...oh, all right,” Arman agreed with an indulgent sigh. Loke really enjoyed being a body servant, however much Arman insisted he could do for himself, and he couldn’t deny the young man’s hands on him soothed his spirit in a way a thousand Mayls could never hope to do. He sat back on the bed and let Loke’s skilled fingers tease out the tangles of his unruly hair, and relaxed as Loke brushed the long locks into order.

  He was falling asleep, and before he knew it, Loke was easing him down to the bed and stealing away. Arman caught the sleeve of his robe to stop him. “No, sleep with me tonight. I could do with not being alone.”

  “If you like,” Loke agreed easily, delaying only to blow out the lamp before climbing back onto the bed and under the covers next to Arman. Arman put his arm around him and hugged him close, enjoying the clean warmth, the honest smell of his friend. Loke got comfortable, used to Arman’s occasional need for company at night, and his own from time to time. “Still wish I didn’t have to get up so early,” he grumbled.

  “Apologies,” Arman said with less than total sincerity. “You can rest on the boat.”

  “I’ll be too busy puking,” Loke said mournfully.

  “Aye, I know, but then you’ll sleep when we get to Urshek. Now be quiet, my friend. And thank you.”

  “No trouble, Arman,” Loke said with a yawn. It was mere moments before his breathing evened out. Loke had always slept like a baby, easily and completely and anywhere he could. He was the least troubled and troublesome person Arman had ever encountered. It was one of the many reasons
Arman loved him utterly. If Arman’s marriage were not such a joke, he supposed he would be lying with his wife in his arms, and his body would respond in a different way, but he didn’t need that as much as he needed the comfort of Loke’s pure trust.

  He thought about Mayl’s vicious, spiteful words over the gossip concerning the two of them. If only you knew the truth of it, Sei Mayl, you would cringe at how you fail in comparison, in virtue and in beauty. But she could not ever damage his friendship with Loke. They had something few husbands and wives ever had—and if he had to endure a bastard masquerading as his own child, and a wife with a stone for a heart, just to keep Loke at his side, then he would. It was a small enough price to pay for perfect companionship.

  Chapter : Darshian 3

  The nitre herb is a deadly poison to humans and to other animals, but drives away infection from any wound. It is reasonable to postulate that such infections are caused by animals too small for us to see, and that they, as we, are poisoned by the nitre. If this is so, if a poison which affects these small animals can be found, which does not poison a larger creature, it might be possible to cure internal disease.

  Kei frowned, reading his late father’s words yet again. The reasoning had never convinced him. His teachers in Darshek held to the view that disease and infection was caused by different poisons, and the cure lay in finding antidotes to those. The problem with the poison theory was in determining how such poisons got into the body, and affected different people differently, or not at all. The problem with his father’s theory was that invisible animals was a crazy idea.

  It hadn’t stopped his father devoting much of his experiments to finding his ‘benign poison’ as he called it, and his diaries were full of notes on his having sampled this or that tincture, sometimes with unfortunate results. Not that it was his experiments which had killed him in the end. This room, with the jars of dried herbs and bags of obscure minerals, his books and his diaries, was deeply redolent of his father and his ever curious, ever questioning mind. Kei missed his Pa all the time, but never more than in this room. No wonder it was here, rather than in their shared bed, that his mother had chosen to die. She must have felt close to him here, just as their son did.